


Of Resurrections And Resolutions

by clockworkrobots



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:16:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkrobots/pseuds/clockworkrobots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after the sky fractured, and the whole of the host were ripped from their homes in heaven, finds the former angel Castiel sitting in the Men of Letters library</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Resurrections And Resolutions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 12 Days of Destiel project over on tumblr!

  
Theirs is a relationship of ‘almost’s. Almost touches and almost confessions, almost kisses and almost advances. Their regrets are made up of the almosts that haunt their thoughts, caught forever on the tips of their tongues, lingering heavier, bitterer, with every new day left unsaid.

There are the almost _'I love you'_ s, and the almost _'please stay'_ s, the almost _‘I’m sorry’_ s and the almost _'okay'_ s. There are the times when they almost say “I miss you,” even when they’re alone, but are too afraid to utter the words aloud, for fear it will only make the ache worse, make them miss the other more.

Dean _almost_ asks Cas to stay, after Lucifer dragged his brother to Hell. Dean almost didn’t ask Cas to go, after he invited him into his new home. Castiel almost went to Dean, that autumn, in the back yard full of leaves. Castiel _almost_ held on, and the end of that year, in the desolate land full of dead, decaying trees.

But they are also a contradiction, because for all that their actions and words are fickle things, unsure and desperate, and too little and too much all at once, their feelings are the opposite. There is no _'almost'_ kind of love between them; their fingers maybe shy, but their hearts are not, despite themselves. The force with which Dean’s name burns through Castiel’s grace is no faint sound, nor is the determined faith despite everything that resounds through Dean’s ribcage, as if caught there, forever, by bars of bone.

No, they are not almost-feeling people—indeed, one might say they feel _too much_. And so the strains of all their other almosts become more painful, under the weight of such a fury, which can only mean one thing: one day, and someday soon, their streak of almosts has to break.

  
***

  
A year after the sky fractured, and the whole of the host were ripped from their homes in heaven, finds the former angel Castiel sitting in the Men of Letters library. It’s well past midnight, but Castiel cannot find it in him to go to sleep. He’s grateful to the Winchesters for offering him a place to stay here, of course, but his occupied room is cold at night, too cold for Castiel to feel truly settled in. Perhaps it’s the walls made of concrete, or the fact that they are several feet underground, but Castiel wonders if it’s not something else, too, something unnamable about his presence in that lonely room at the end of the hall, that saps it of all warmth for him.

The library, though, is never cold. Castiel doesn’t quite know why that is, either, for the whole bunker complex seems to run with the same atmospheric regulation, and the library is certainly a more expansive space than his bedroom, but despite all that, it is miles more inviting. So this is where Castiel spends his evenings, now, and then most nights, falling asleep in an arm chair with a book perched open in his lap.

He often wakes with his book laid aside for him, and a steaming mug of coffee a hand’s reach away, ready and waiting to help him through the coming day. He doesn’t know if it’s Sam or Dean who does it, but he has his suspicions. Only Dean knows how Castiel takes his coffee, and the mysterious mug is made perfect every time.

  
***

  
_Six Months Ago_

  
Something cracks open again in spring, bursting and consuming all with scorching white light, though this time it is not heaven. It is Sam.

Sam, who should have died a year ago, but didn’t. Sam, who took on the burden of the trials to not only give his brother a chance at happiness in life, but also the whole world. Sam, who was once the boy with the demon blood and now, before an audience of angels and future saints, becomes the boy who resonates with the Word of God. He resonates open.

_Light_ springs forth, and on that day in spring, a year after Sam should have died, he is finally _delivered_ , and the wounds of the world finally sew shut.

Dean does not try to stop him, and perhaps that is the true miracle of this day, the ascent of Dean Winchester to somewhere closer to freedom, to unburdened love. Sam Winchester wields the word of God, and Dean Winchester is a witness to it, a martyr you might say, in another era of saints and sacrifice. Sam dies for the good of humanity and Dean rises next to him, standing strong and tall as he lets his brother go, the full embodiment of that Goodness.

Castiel watches on in awe. Here is the true climax of their gospel, he now knows, and he is privileged enough to be present for it. Castiel has witnessed the rise and fall of empires, of species, of civilisations. He’s witnessed his own rise, his own sorry, sour fall from stolen glory, and seen how horrifically he pulled everything he loved down with him. Castiel is familiar with falling, in every way; he is familiar with death and dying and soul-deep decay. And so as Sam Winchester dies and saves the world, Castiel can tell, through Dean’s resigned, strained sighs that this is not the descent that it would seem. Sam’s body lays lifeless on the ground, after, but Castiel knows that this is not a fall for him. This, this is _flight_. And so Castiel, he rises to meet him.

He reaches within his chest to where his borrowed grace burns, a rare, endangered kind of fire, and walks toward his friend. From somewhere, Castiel thinks he might hear Dean call his name, but his being is expanding through the pores of his vessel, and he cannot stop to check. His momentum is too heavy now. He was not made for this task, but he has _chosen_ it as his, and that means everything. He pours the energy writhing between his palms into Sam’s still chest, and he feels the last of his stolen celestial power literally sap out of him, out of the tips of his fingers straight to Sam’s soul.

Castiel staggers back when the last of it leaves him, feeling winded and more tired than he’s ever been, but he takes a moment to watch Sam’s miraculous first breath post-resurrection to close his eyes and collapse to the ground himself.

When he comes to Dean is talking to Sam in a low, husky voice, a sign his throat has been strained raw from yelling. Castiel sits up with a loud ground, at captures both of the brothers’ attention.

"Cas!” Dean yells as he runs up to him, gripping him tight on the shoulder in instinct. He searches Castiel’s face desperately for any sign of anguish. “Your…your grace—"

Castiel shakes his head. “It wasn’t mine,” he says, and is surprised with himself that the words do not sound bitter, tinged with regret. It’s simply a line delivered like the honest fact it is. It wasn’t his. “Well, it was in the end, I suppose,” he amends. “But borrowed, like the rest of me.”

Dean frowns. His hand on Castiel’s coat remains unmoved. “What—?”

"And if it was mine in the end,” Castiel sighs, taking in a deep breath, “it was mine to give up."

"But it wasn’t me, Dean. I’m alive."

"Go back to Sam," Castiel tells him, letting Dean’s firm hand slip off him. He and Dean still need to talk—about so many things—but they have time now, and first: Dean needs his brother.

Dean nods in silent assent, set of his jaw tensing. “Don’t go anywhere,” Dean orders him, with a point of his finger, but it’s more of a plea than a strict direction.

Castiel smiles in reassurance. “I have nowhere else to be.”

  
*** 

  
_Six Months Later_

  
On a particularly cold morning in late December, Dean finds Castiel already awake when he brings him his morning coffee. That, however, is not the only thing unusual about the scene he walks in on in the library, for Castiel often takes several hours and more than one cup of something caffeinated to feel alive enough for the day, but this morning he finds him not only awake but _lively_.

For a second, Dean entertains that this sudden change is the direct result of _him_ being the first thing Cas sees in the morning, but he dispels that fanciful thought quickly before it morphs into something dangerous, like _hope_.

"You—" Dean stops himself, looks down, and shakes his head with a breathy chuckle.

"What?" Cas probes, standing up to meet him, and relieve him of the extra mug of coffee in his hand.

"Nothing, just—You look happy, man. I don’t know why, God knows we haven’t—the past few years haven’t been the best. But you look good," he says, looking at his best friend, considering. "Happy."

Not that Cas has been _miserable_ these past months since he gave up his last chance at angelic power for the sake of Sam, Dean thinks, but he’s been somewhat distant, as if unsure about what his place in the world is now, what his place is now with them.

But unbeknownst to Dean, Castiel has come to a decision.

Just as Dean reaches the threshold of the open door, Cas speaks again, and it makes Dean pause. “You’re quick to take yourself out of the equation for it,” he says, as Dean’s back is still turned.

Dean twists back to look at him. “Hmm?”

Cas doesn’t meet Dean’s gaze, and his frown remains fixated on his hands in front of him, resting idly on the library table before him. “You say I look happy,” he says after another beat, still looking down, “but immediately qualify your observation by assuming you can’t be the cause of it.”

Dean scoffs self-effacingly. “Yeah, well—”

"You shouldn’t."

Dean blanches. He looks afraid of what those words might mean. “Look, Cas—”

"You shouldn’t because you are the cause of it. You and Sam," he stresses, stare bare and pleading, and Dean _knows_ Cas is graceless now, but he still feels like holding his gaze too long is like staring into the sun.

"What do you think I have to be happy, Dean, when I have caused so much suffering and suffered so much myself? When I have caused so much loss and lost so much? I hardly know if I deserve peace or respite, but I do know I have found it in your friendship. So please, don’t deny me that."

Not again, hangs in the air, unsaid but not unheard.

"I’m not—" Dean begins, but falters. He sets his own coffee down before he drops it inadvertently. "Fuck, I’m sorry, man," he huffs out.

Castiel cocks his head in that old, familiar way. “For what?” He looks genuinely at a loss.

"For—for everything, I guess," Dean laughs, but it’s without mirth, only laced with self-admonishment. "Every shitty thing that’s happened in the past…" he trails off, "well, forever."

Castiel smile is small, sympathetic instead of mocking. “I don’t think you can take the blame for every bad thing in the history of forever, Dean,” Cas says softly, too kindly for Dean’s ears to bear.

He laughs again hollowly, and avoid Castiel’s intense gaze “Well, enough of it, right?”

"Not even that."

"I don’t know what to say. I want—" he huffs, and pauses to bite his lip. "I want to start over," he finally says, meeting Cas’ eyes finally with a meaningful, though hesitant look. Castiel meets it with an equally hesitantly hopeful one.

"I’ve learned, in recent years—well, in recent months, really—that the best way to start over is to let go," he says, after a pregnant pause. He holds himself straight, but his shoulders are not tense as they often are these days, nor slouched with the weight of the world upon them. Castiel stands straight like a former soldier would, tall and ready for his next command.

"How do I do that, exactly?" Dean asks him, honestly searching for answers. he wants to follow Cas into this wide world he’s discovered, where he can leave the past behind.

Castiel takes a step closer, stepping past the corner of the wooden table that divides them. “By letting yourself embrace the fall,” he says, voice sombre but somehow encouraging despite that.

Dean sways into Cas’ space as he approaches slowly. “I don’t know if I can, Cas,” he says, sad and resigned, but not _wanting_ to be. After everything that’s happened, with everything Dean’s terrified still could, he doesn’t know if he _ever_ can.

In what must count as some small sort of miracle, Castiel nods his head in understanding. He steps away as if to leave the room, but before he goes he claps Dean on the shoulder, hand lingering just a little too long, but also not long enough. “I’ll be waiting for you when you do,” he says, before he begins to walk away, taking his coffee with him.

Dean watches him go without a word, but when he reaches the threshold between the library and the entrance to the corridor towards the bedrooms, he stops, and turns briefly to call his friend’s name again. “Dean?”

"Yeah?" Dean croaks back in answer. It’s really too early in the morning for this.

"I didn’t know either," Cas admits, reviving the thread of their conversation. "I think… I think knowing isn’t everything. It surprises me to say that, but I think it’s true," he says, and looks almost surprised with himself as he says it, as if just coming to some sort of personal revelation. "Sometimes you just… _feel._ ”

Well, Dean knows that well, he thinks. Too well. Sometimes feeling is exactly the thing that destroys him. What destroys everything, and ruins them all. But sometimes—

"I learned that from you."

  
***

  
Christmas approaches with unexpected speed. Before any of them quite have time to realise it, they’ve arrived at December 23rd without any plans to show for it. Not that Christmas is normally any cause of great celebration for them, but this year is the first time, in a long time, that they have achieved any kind of peace or permanence in their situation enough to even _think_ about celebrating anything, even as agnostics during religious celebrations.

Maybe the delay in planning or preparations this year, even of something as simple as a meal, is caused by a more personal sort of crisis. Not that a crisis of emotion is anything _simple_ in the Winchester household, but it certainly is less foreboding in comparison to the end of the world.

Well, sometimes.

Evidently not this time, for the swirl of emotions within Dean induced by Castiel’s constant and unusually unwavering presence is something of an apocalypse in and of itself, as well. Sometimes discovering you’ve been in love with someone for ages does that, but what’s worse is discovering that there’s nothing in the way anymore to prevent him from having everything he ever wanted: a home and warm arms to fall into.

In the evening, Dean spends an close to half an hour searching the depths of the bunker for his fallen friend before finding him sitting on his unmade bed in his spare, sparse room.

“Whoa,” Dean says upon entering, not expecting Castiel to be _here_ of all places. It throws him a little. It had always made him uneasy, how Castiel had never seemed to truly settle down with them in here, despite generally seeming to like the place. Maybe that’s truly what has made Dean reticent to act on what’s been broiling within him these past few year, never knowing for sure if one day he’ll walk into the library and find Cas gone. God knows he deserves it. He’s destroyed enough of everything else.

But no, here Castiel is of all places, the one room he’s refused to call his own but that they had given to him as his. It _means_ something, but Dean can’t quite his fingering on what. So instead, he picks up the thread of a thought from days ago.

"You said—" Dean starts, and then stops, unsure of how to proceed. "You said you’d be waiting for me if I… if I was ready. To, you know…" he gulps, and raises his eyes tentatively to gauge Cas’ reaction. His friend’s face is blank, waiting for him to continue.

When Cas sees Dean is waiting for some acknowledgement, he nods. Dean clenches his jaw. “Right.”

"I did say something to that effect, yes," Cas says, somewhat awkward, right hand idly picking t the fabric of the thin sheet he sits upon on his bed.

"Yeah,” Dean says, taking a step further into the room, closer to Castiel’s side at the edge of his made. “Well, you know I think I might be ready. To, you know" he waves his hands around. _Kiss? Admit everything? Ask you to stay here forever? With me?_

He takes a brave gulp. ”Let go?”

Cas stares at him in open wonder.

"So?" Dean prompts nervously after Cas’ continued silence, and shuffles his stance, limbs restless.

“I’m sorry, I—” Castiel begins, and then laughs breathily, in shy delight. “Truthfully I have no idea what to do,” he admits, looking down at his hands in his lap before raising his gaze t meet Deans. It encourages Dean closer, so that his knees bump his knees. “I didn’t—I _hoped_ —” he laughs again, “I’m very new at this, as you can see.”

"Dude, I’m not any better, as _you_ can see,” Dean says softly, taking seat down next to him. He also takes this moment to look around the room, and like Sam’s had been for ages, his room bares no marking of his occupancy. It’s as if he’s waiting for something to happen.

Maybe Dean has been, too. Maybe he brings Cas a coffee every morning in a silent act of of begging, goading him to comment on why he does _. Because I want you here,_ his heart yearns to say, while his mouth remains unmoved _. Because I want you here with me_.

It’s always the almost admissions that ruin him.

"Should I…?" Cas says, breaking dean out of the mire of his thoughts. He reaches out to cup Dean’s face, but hesitates. Dean holds his breath, half in shock, and desperate need for him to go the whole way.

His right thumb rests just below Dean’s eye, and instinctually Dean’s eyelids flutter to drop closed, but he dare not close them—not yet. Cas’ touch is light, unsure still, and Dean yearns to lean into it.

But it’s Cas’ turn to move.

Finally, Cas’ eyes uncloud, and he whispers a quiet, “Yes,” before leaning forth.

His lips are warm, though not as warm as Dean imagined they’d be, in his most stolen moments of sleep. But maybe Dean’s dream-mind was too eager to collapse sensations, for though Cas’ mouth is not particularly warm, the feeling it invokes in Dean _is_. His stomach bubbles with a long-missed warmth, and his hands flutter with the need to grip, to _touch_.

Dean’s move opens to the searching press of Castiel, and his hands find purchase upon the solid curve of his shoulder and the base of his neck. Dean feels somewhat like a teenager again, having his first kiss in Sonny’s living room, caught by surprise, uncertain of what to do or where to put his hands, but so, _so_ into it.

Finally the novelty of it being Cas he’s kissing wears off enough for him to get his mind back into gear, and he kisses back in skilled earnestness, with expert, greedy swipes of his tongue. Dean kisses Cas like he _imagined_ his first kiss would be like as a cocky teen.

"Yeah, you’re getting the hang of it," Dean says, as they pull apart for breath, just t have something to say. He knows something profound has changed between them, but then again, everything between them has always carried such profound weight, maybe this is more of a relief, a breaking of some sort of unbearable tension. Dean smiles.

Cas smiles back.

  
***

  
On Christmas morning Dean wakes up a happy buzz, having fallen asleep to the memory of stealing kisses off Cas all day, out of Sam’s sight. God, he _actually_ feels like a teenage again, getting that second chance at adolescent awkwardness that was taken from him too soon.

When he walks into the library in his morning search for Cas, he also finds himself awoken into something of a Winter Wonderland.

The whole place is _decked_ in Christmas decorations, from tacky garlands to fucking honest-to-God _poinsettias_.

"Who are you, Elf from the movie _Elf_?,” Dean days when he finds Ca in the corner, by his fresh, pine-scented Christmas tree as he adds the last of the Dollar store baubles he’d clearly bought on the down low _. So_ that’s _why he’s been acting so shifty lately,_ Dean thinks. Dean’s hardly making fun, though—he’s _impressed_.

“‘Elf from the movie _Elf_ ' is named Buddy,” Cas corrects him. “I watched it somewhere around 2 A.M., right before I napped somewhere between 4 and 6,” he adds as an afterthought, bringing attention to the tired rings around his eyes.

"Jesus Christ, Cas, you didn’t have to—" Dean shakes his head in disbelief, “—You didn’t have to do this.”

“Obviously,” Castiel rolls his eyes, straightening up as he hangs the last of the decorations on the tree. It looks absolutely beautiful, and Dean thinks that it has to be the first real Christmas tree Dean’s ever woken up to in his whole life.

“I wanted to,” Cas says, and then kisses him on the corner of his mouth, half on his cheek. Dean wants to make some silly comment about him missing, but in the past two days he’s come to learn that Cas likes this, these simple, almost casual kisses that betray something more. Dean likes them, too.

“This is intense,” Dean nods towards the decorations all around them. “You certainly went all out.”

“I watched a lot of Christmas movies to help keep me awake,” Cas admits, as he collapses into the nearest plush chair. “They provided a lot of… exuberant inspiration you might say. Especially _The Grinch Who Stole Christmas_. I still don’t quite understand what a _Who_ is, but they do have very extravagant decorations.”

“Wait, did you watch the original movie or the Jim Carrey one?”

“Both,” Castiel smiles knowingly.

Dean laughs. “Well, as long as you watched the cartoon, I’m happy.”

He moves to perch on the armrest of Cas’ chair, because he can _do_ that now, just settle into his space like that’s exactly the place he should be _. It is,_ Dean thinks, satisfied.

“Hell, I can’t remember—I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy,” he admits, as his fingers find his way into Cas’ hair. Cas’ eyes fall as Dean begins idly massaging his scalp. “Thanks, man.”

“Mmm,” Cas hums, clearly lost in the sensation of Dean’s hands and near-sleep.

“You’re welcome, Dean,” he says after a minute. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Cas,” Dean says, before leaning down to plant a kiss upo the crown of his head. Without raising back up he whispers into that sweet, dark, ruffled hair, “Now, as my first gift for you today, I’m gonna tell you to go take a nap. You look like you’re gonna keel over, dude.”

“I’m fine,” Cas pointlessly denies, as his eyes are still drooped closed. “I’ve imbibed… a _lot_ of coffee.”

“Take a nap,” Dean claps him on the shoulder to jolt his friend awake. “ _Sam_ isn’t even awake yet, you’re not ruining anyone’s fun. I can give you guys your gifts later.”

“You got me a present?” Cas perks up.

“Of course,” Dean smirks. They may have been kind of last minute ‘cause he may have forgotten Christmas was a thing were you did this sort of thing, but _oh yeah_ does he have some presents for Cas. Pretty much all of which he doesn’t really want him to open in front of Sam, because they may or may not consist of an assortment of condoms and lube and other such things (including one item of fabric being more of a present to Dean himself). Dean’s usually not one to be so forward on something so serious, because old habits die hard, and self-doubt is his oldest habit, but hell, Dean figures if he’s finally going in for this, he might as well go all out. And he wants to make it _good_.

As Castiel leaves to collapse into Dean’s bed at Dean’t behest, he rather looks like he’s preening.

  
***

  
Later that morning, when Sam has been shown the wonders of Cas’ midnight creativity, and they’ve all had their coffee and an opportunity to revel in the fact that they are all whole and alive and together, Dean and Cas abscond into the privacy of Dean’s bedroom to do a little mistletoe-inspired macking. Sans-mistletoe. They don’t really need _that_ much encouragement.

And on Dean’ bed, on Christmas Day, a little miracle occurs. Dean and Cas finally stop thinking _almosts_ , and finally say _yes_ into each other’s lips, into each other’s chests, thighs, and ass. They say _yes_ into the other’s very pores and have that _yes_ panted back, sighed back, _screamed_ back as a climax is reached, and with that—well.

_Jesus fucking finally,_ to quote one Sam Winchester, bemoaning the state of his earplug-less life next door.


End file.
